


Contrition is Tedious

by suddenlyswept



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenlyswept/pseuds/suddenlyswept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John receives a doll-sized Sherlock. No one knows why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrition is Tedious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tocourtdisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/gifts).



 

 

 _“Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

John pulled the string again. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

And a fourth time, because, well, he was just petty enough to enjoy annoying Sherlock. . “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

“Oh would you _stop_ with that infernal noise!” Sherlock huffed before smashing his lips with his fingers once more.

 

John glared at him, tilted his head in defiance. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

Pale eyes glared, “Why must you continue with that travesty of a creation? Mycroft has had his fun and you have certainly gotten your use out of it.”

 

“My use?” John’s brows shot up. “My us-”

 

“And I will remind you that I have never used that exact phrasing-”

 

“Close enough.”

 

“-nor do I speak in that high, tinny register,” Sherlock finished with a huff, ignoring John’s interruption.   
  


“Clearly, you do.” John pulled the string one more time.

 

While Sherlock only slanted a look of supreme irritation over, John studied the “gift” Mycroft had left for him.

 

 

 

He’d rolled his face onto something firm and rather pokey and when he had opened his eyes, he’d found a shrunken Sherlock head staring at him.

 

So really, John’s morning had not begun well.

 

Of course, it’d not gotten any better when he’d shrieked, flailed, and fallen out of his bed. Sherlock strode into the room, robe billowing out over John’s face as Sherlock turned and checked all corners of John’s room, a Walther P-99 in hand.

 

When his sweep was completed, he’d looked down at John, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with the only thought of _Dear god, why_ in his head. “Good morning, John.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Of course, Sherlock had immediately spotted the source of John’s distress and reached over John’s prone body to pluck the doll off of the pillow. He’d given John a piercing look before studying the doll. Flipping it over, he’d discovered the small plastic circle at the lower back and pulled. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

John groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. This wasn’t happening to him.

 

Sherlock studied the doll once more and then shifted his feet. Without saying anything.

 

Dreading what that indicated, John opened his eyes once more to see an uncomfortable slant of the shoulders he hadn’t seen on Sherlock since that first dinner they’d had together. Bloody hell.

 

“John,” Sherlock started out in a more careful voice than John had heard him use before, “the expression of grief can manifest-”

 

John rolled his eyes and covered his face once more, “Fuck off, Sherlock. I didn’t have that doll made. It was _left_ on my pillow this morning, no doubt by a Holmes.”

 

“Mycroft.” The tone had changed to irritation.

 

“Unless there is another one of you and please do _not_ tell me if there is.”

 

“Of course, there are more Holmes’s,” Sherlock commented, completely ignoring John’s request as usual. “At the very least, there is Mother.”

 

“Who is no doubt as terrifying as the rest of you.”

 

“No doubt,” Sherlock murmured, still studying the doll while John eventually rolled to his feet. He stared at the doll in Sherlock’s hand for a minute before plucking it out, “Why on earth would Mycroft bring this to me?”

 

“Why on earth would he continue to wear waistcoats with his figure? The mysteries of Mycroft are abundant and hardly interesting. Now, we have a case.”

 

John, who was struggling into his jumper, finally managed to pop his head through in time to sigh, “ _We_ do not have anything. _I_ have to get to the surgery.”

 

Sherlock gave a dramatic half turn and sat on the edge of the bed, “Why you continue to persist in this petty act of revenge is-”

 

“ _Petty act of revenge_ ,” John repeated incredulously. “This is my job, Sherlock. The first steady one I’ve had since meeting you. And may I remind you that not all of us have the resources to—”

 

“If this is about money—” Sherlock started.

 

“Of course it’s about money!” John shouted, finally getting an arm through his jumper. “You _left_ for THREE BLOODY YEARS. And I still received your bills for two years before they were all paid off and bloody Mycroft wouldn’t settle your estate because of course HE knew you were coming back. Not all of us had that luxury, Sherlock. Some of us thought you weren’t coming back.”

 

“John, I never expected you to pay—”

 

John gave a mirthless laugh and turned away, pulling a pair of trousers from the drawers, “What else was I to do? They were already printing horrible things about you and if debt collectors hadn’t been paid they’d have gone to the rags and Mrs. Hudson—”

 

John interrupted himself and sighed as he shoved his feet into a pair of trainers. “It’s not about the money, Sherlock,” and walked out.

 

 

 

Eighteen hours later he’d come back to 221B only to find that damned doll sitting on his laptop and Sherlock draped over the couch with his feet in the air. “Should I ask?”

 

“John. Good. You’re a former soldier suffering of average intelligence through post-traumatic stress disorder—”

 

“Ah, such a flatterer,” John murmured. Uselessly, as it turns out.

 

“—with anger issues—”

 

“Which have only been made worse since moving in with you.”

 

“—and past propensity to engage in games of chance too often for the health of your finances, and are therefore likely to have some insight, insignificant as it may be, into understanding why a man, not dissimilar to yourself, would kidnap a detective inspector only to leave him in a football field outside of Brighton, completely unharmed but naked and sporting the words _Willie Dee_ painted on his back.”

 

John dropped into a chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t actually have any theories?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I do. However, I’ve been told to _include you more in my thinking_.” John, as hard as it was to believe, for a while at least, had missed that note of scorn in Sherlock’s voice. He didn’t anymore.

 

“You might have done _before_ you jumped off a building and slammed into the sidewalk before my very eyes,” John muttered, not moving his head at all.

 

“Oh, do move on, John. I’ll not apologize again.”

 

John snorted and opened his eyes, looking at a now pacing Sherlock Holmes. “You’ve not apologized at all.”

 

“Insignificant,” Sherlock declared, and snatched up the doll before tossing it at John’s head, “Do get rid of that.”

 

John caught the doll; staring at its wild curls and incredibly gratefully Mycroft did not choose to deliver this while Sherlock had been “dead”.

 

It had been six weeks since Sherlock had returned. Like nothing had happened. Like the last three years had only been a paused breath and things could just return as they had been. John had spent the last three years grieving and it had turned out to be a lie. He didn’t know how to forgive that.

 

He sighed. “The William D. Porter was a World War II American naval destroyer that was infamous for never doing anything right. It nearly killed FDR twice, its entire crew was arrested, and to be assigned to the ship was a punishment. It became synonymous with ineptitude and embarrassment.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “Of course. Of _COURSE_. He’d been embarrassed. Embarrassed by his country, embarrassed by Scotland Yard, and Lestrade has been rather visible of late—”

 

“Are you saying it was Lestrade left naked in a field?”

 

Silence met that incredulous question.

 

He swooped himself back onto the couch and stapled his fingers against his lips.

 

Five minutes of silence passed before John, bored and vaguely annoyed, pulled the string on the doll.

 

 _“Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

John pulled the string again. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

And a fourth time, because, well, he was just petty enough to enjoy annoying Sherlock. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

“Oh would you _stop_ with that infernal noise!” Sherlock huffed before smashing his lips with his fingers once more.

 

John glared at him, tilted his head in defiance. “ _Elementary, my dear Watson_.”

 

Pale eyes glared, “Why must you continue with that travesty of a creation? Mycroft has had his fun and you have certainly gotten your use out of it.”

 

“My use?” John’s brows shot up. “My us-”

 

“And I will remind you that I have never used that exact phrasing-”

 

“Close enough.”

 

“-nor do I speak in that high, tinny register,” Sherlock finished with a huff, ignoring John’s interruption.   
  


“Clearly, you do.” John pulled the string one more time.

 

Sherlock huffed and grabbed John’s laptop, typing furiously. John studied that pale, sharp face he’d so missed. He’d punched it six weeks ago. And then kissed the high, sharp cheek he’d bloodied.

 

He’d been relieved. Then angry. So very angry.

 

He still was.

 

After another five minutes passed, Sherlock jumped up, snatched his phone from the mantle, and began texting. When done, he smirked triumphantly, issued a brief, “Ha!” and then looked over, where John was still sitting.

 

Sherlock paused. Careful once more. “Tea?”

 

John looked up, surprised. Pleased. Not at all unaware it was a bribe. “Please.”

 

Sherlock moved towards the kitchen and John heard cabinets opening and closing forcefully. Once the kettle was on, John heard a voice, not at all high or tinny, call out, “I can’t find the tea. You’ve moved things!” A sigh and another slammed cabinet. “Contrition is so tedious, John. Am I forgiven yet?

 

He smiled, reluctantly but honestly. Three years had passed but he was still undeniably Sherlock. And he had quite missed Sherlock.

 

There was the sound of a long pull. “ _Elementary, my dear—_ ” __

**Author's Note:**

> for tocourtdisaster's birthday. love you, bb.


End file.
